Fifties or Hundreds?
by updatepls
Summary: Sarah's grifting has turned into something of an addiction, and for her next hit she's got her eye on Dyad's wealthiest. (Pre-series Sarah (character-wise), they're not clones).


Sarah sees the sadistic curl in Rachel's lip when she orders Martin around—and she thinks she knows how to win this.

She sees the fire behind her eyes, the trip she gets when Daniel makes mistakes, when he feels humiliated; how she sways her hips when she strides in front of Paul, even though Sarah can tell she isn't the least bit interested.

Sarah thinks she's waiting for someone to be courageous enough to put the shoe on the other foot. Not that she'd ever say it—ever _ask_ for it—of course. In the short time that Sarah has known her, she has learnt that Rachel Duncan doesn't ask for things; every question mark that leaves her lips entirely rhetorical; every request a command. But that doesn't mean she can keep the challenge out of her eyes, daring you to take her on; to give her your best shot. Sarah thinks Rachel lives for the moments people try to get under her skin, try to make her tick—made all the more intoxicating by how rare they are. Because Ms Duncan is a frightening woman; a strange mix of inhuman coolness and explosive ardour, and to give her as good as you're getting takes a person of questionable sanity.

But Sarah needs the money. Wait—that's a lie. Sarah wants it; wants it bad. She's addicted to pulling these stunts and she knows it—going after bigger, better, richer, every time; more money, larger firms, higher stakes. She loves it, the thrill of it. And _Rachel Duncan_ is her next catch. Well, how could she have been so careless, anyway—to let some trashy newspaper put down in ink precisely how much she's worth, and for all the world to see? Toronto's eighth richest woman, if Sarah remembers the list correctly.

Sarah isn't surprised, she can practically smell it radiating off her skin; can imagine Rachel opening a black leather purse and pulling out wads of paper money. Maybe for a clandestine business deal, maybe not; maybe to slide delicately under the elastic of a woman dancing around a pole.

_What?_

Sarah pauses, her hand coming to a halt on the window pane she's supposed to be cleaning. Rachel isn't _gay_. And certainly wouldn't frequent a place like _that_. Jesus. Sarah holds the unbidden notion in her mind for a moment further, examining it. No. It's laughable. The cut of Rachel's dresses and the height of her heels? Impossible.

"Miss Manning. It would appear you have forgotten your role in this building."

The voice of the woman herself rings out, drawing Sarah back down to earth, and she cocks her head to face her new boss.

"Yeah, uh... on it."

"I believe we have already discussed how you are to address me," Rachel says, her eyes never leaving the papers on her desk.

Sarah turns her back to Rachel and rolls her eyes, trying to remember why she took this job in the first place, "Yes, Ms Duncan."

"Good," Rachel let's the word linger in her mouth, permitting herself a single glance in Sarah's direction.

Was that a once-over Sarah caught in the reflection of the glass? Sarah scoffs internally. But then she remembers her daydream, the image of some sleazy CEO watching girls dance around in their underwear while he sips a cocktail once again morphing into Rachel Duncan doing the exact same thing. And it doesn't look so ridiculous; those shark eyes of hers roving over the crude scene, impassive; Rachel picking someone out (it would be a club, an elite and extortionate club, Sarah amends) and strutting down a hallway to a personal suite, unsmiling. Sarah chuckles incredulously under her breath; she can see it, she can see it so clearly and it is _delicious_. A woman like Rachel Duncan, lusting after girls. _Delicious_.

Sarah laughs again, shaking her head.

"Strange. I don't see anything funny about cleaning offices for a living, Miss Manning. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me?"

There it is again; Rachel just begging for someone to retaliate, for someone to try and put her in her place. Only for her to be able to push them back down even harder, of course. She'd hate it if she ever truly got what she's always asking for. Or maybe not? Sarah thinks control freaks like Rachel Duncan probably just want someone to tie their hands to the headboard in all honesty. And if that person could be a woman, all the better; Sarah had already thought she was in with a decent shot, but this? Child's play.

Sarah lifts her eyes without turning around, staring through her own reflection. She's weighed her options in a fraction of a second and before she knows it, "Yeah, well, I don't see anything funny about being an uptight rich bitch but you seem to get off on _that_ alright."

Sarah turns to face Rachel slowly, shocked at herself even—mostly for beginning this one so quickly. Usually she settles in for at least a month, the suspense of finding the perfect moment like a drug to her. But there's something electric about Rachel, something about her that grates on Sarah, that makes her want to simultaneously rip out Rachel's hair and her own.

She stands slouched back on her hips, soapy water dripping from her fingertips and onto the expensive carpet. And Rachel is... _smiling_. An evasive, mysterious, calculated sort of smile. She blinks several times at Sarah before: "I see."

Clearly Sarah's hunches serve her better than she could ever have imagined, because remarkably Rachel doesn't sound affronted in the least. Sarah thinks she sounds... _impressed_.

_Good_.

Then suddenly Rachel's smile is gone and she's raising her eyebrows dangerously—yet somehow she looks no less impressed for it. In fact, Sarah swears she sees the glint of something quite different beneath those long eyelashes.

"I'd appreciate if you kept your thoughts to yourself from now on, lest we should forget who is _really_," Rachel lets her eyes move up Sarah's uniform, "in control here."

With a challenging smirk, Sarah briefly nods her head to one side before turning back to her chores. _Hm, we'll see about that._

Reaching to scrub a spot a few feet above her head, Sarah feels her shirt ride up and then settle just below her waist. Instinctively she goes to pull it back down but then thinks better of it; she doesn't need to turn around to know that Rachel's eyes are on her. She imagines Rachel (what a pretty name for such a corporate bitch) unabashedly letting her gaze travel over the exposed skin, what with Sarah's back turned and all, and she pushes up onto the balls of her feet, flexing the muscles in her legs. Sarah imagines Rachel signing all the wrong boxes and stapling her notepad to the desk. Of course she _doesn't_—but she _is_ watching, and Sarah can feel Rachel's eyes heavy on her as she bends down for a bottle of surface cleaner.

It might be called a long con, but Sarah knows that this one will be over before Friday comes around. What a shame; she's having so much fun already.


End file.
